


Just Like A Magnet

by luninosity



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) RPF
Genre: Coffee, Freckles, Love Confessions, M/M, Pranks and Practical Jokes, Realization, oblivious!Michael
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-12
Updated: 2012-10-12
Packaged: 2017-11-16 03:15:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/534867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luninosity/pseuds/luninosity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Otherwise known as The One About James's Freckles. Prank wars on set, gingerbread coffee, oblivious Michael having an epiphany at last, boys falling in love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just Like A Magnet

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Eve 6’s “Bang!”: _I heard a bang/ as stars collided/ her skin drew me in just like a magnet…_

Everything started with a mostly-naked picture of a man.  
   
More accurately, with a mostly-naked picture of Michael. To be absolutely precise, with a picture of Michael in full Spartan costume, right out of _300_ , blown up to almost life-size and hung prominently on the wall of the make-up trailer.  
   
Michael stared at his own bare legs and far too skimpy loincloth, and yelled, “James!”  
   
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” James tried to sound shocked, but the effect was spoiled by his complete and utter inability to keep a straight face.  
   
“ _Revenge_ ,” Michael said, and then got pushed into a chair by two make-up artists, who effectively trapped him in place, which allowed James to make his escape. “Revenge!” Michael shouted after him, again, just to make sure he got the message.  
   
The make-up artists looked from him to the newly decorated wall, and Michael could’ve sworn he heard a giggle.  
   
And that was only the beginning of the day.  
   
James had thoughtfully left several more loincloth-clad pictures of Michael all around the set, attached to furniture, and camera equipment, and, perhaps most memorably, Matthew’s director’s chair. None of them were quite as horrifyingly large-scale as the first one, but by that afternoon Michael was pretty sure he’d heard a joke about spears, Spartans, or sculpted abs, from every single person currently working on the film. He’d gone from amused to horrified to annoyed and, finally, back to amused again. After all, James must have had to stare at pictures of his loincloth for _hours_ while setting everything up.  
   
His last scene of the day involved the serious conversation about peace and killing and other options, with James, in the cozy little study. James whispered “Sorry,” as they walked onto the set, possibly concerned that Michael might still want to kill him.  
   
Might’ve been true, two hours ago. Not now, though. He’d had time to come up with a few plans, and make a few phone calls, so he just grinned, and it was not in any way his fault if James seemed slightly alarmed by this response.  
   
James, as always, delivered a thoroughly impressive performance. He could slip in and out of character so easily, Michael thought, watching with the little piece of his brain that wasn’t thinking Erik thoughts. But then, that was part of what made James so great at their mutually chosen profession; he knew his characters inside and out, all their emotions, and he wasn’t afraid to bring everything he could to the moment, every single time. And that made Michael’s job easy, really, because he couldn’t help but respond.  
   
They did four flawless takes—he _knew_ they were flawless, and he knew James knew it too; nobody was perfect all the time, but this, the two of them working together, was as smooth and effortless as anything ever could be—and, in unison, made faces at Matthew when he said, “One more, all right? Just in case.”  
   
James sighed, put back on his serious face, and said, “Killing will not bring you peace.”  
   
Michael gazed back at him. “Peace was never an option. And there’s a reason for that, you know.”  
   
James blinked, because they both knew that that wasn’t exactly the line, but seemed willing to play along. “And what is that reason, may I ask?”  
   
Michael leaned across the table toward him, dramatically. James leaned in, too, waiting. “Because, my friend…this… is _SPARTA_!”  
   
James burst out laughing, so hard he actually fell out of his chair. Success, then, even if he hadn’t actually meant to make James end up on the floor.  
   
He slid out of his overstuffed chair, too, and sat down next to James. Behind them, he could hear the camera operators, and even Matthew, chuckling as well.  
   
“All right, are you?”  
   
 James tried to say something, gave up, and just lay there and laughed. Michael watched with satisfaction. James consumed by amusement, all bright eyes and floppy hair, was just…perfect. No other adjective quite fit.  
   
He leaned back against the solid wood of the table, and added, contemplatively, “I wonder if they’d let Magneto fight with a spear…” Which made James dissolve into delighted giggles again.  
   
“Magneto in a loincloth. Could be a sequel…”  
   
“Or a terrible pornographic version.”  
   
“Oh, I wonder if that exists!”  
   
“You are _not_ going to go looking for it,” Michael informed him, alarmed at the speculative look in those sparkling eyes.  
   
“Just for that, I won’t tell you if I find something.”  
   
“Yes, you will.” James was terrible at keeping secrets, especially when he was excited about something. He did try—he’d tried very hard when they’d been planning Rose’s birthday party—but he always ended up bouncing around the set grinning and telling anyone who asked, because he was happy and he wanted other people to be happy too. James always wanted other people to be happy, Michael thought, and nudged James’s leg with his foot, just because the leg was next to him and he could.  
   
Matthew looked down at them, sprawled comfortably on the carpeted floor, and sighed. “We’re not going to get one more take, are we?”  
   
“I’m so sorry.” James did sound apologetic, but he still didn’t bother sitting up. “I could try. But I think I’ve been defeated by Magneto in a loincloth.”  
   
“I don’t even want to know,” Matthew shook his head at them. “Go back to the hotel. Or make yourselves useful and get the shirtless pictures of Fassbender off of my chair.”  
   
“Really? I thought they were very decorative. Tastefully placed.”  
   
“I don’t think the word tasteful means what you think it means, McAvoy.”  
   
“Well, if you say so,” James said, and took the offered hand and let Michael pull him up off the floor. Michael held onto his hand for a bit longer than necessary, because those fingers felt slightly cold in his and he wanted to warm them up. James did not seem to mind.  
   
And that was the end of the first day.

  
   
The next morning, he made sure to be watching James’s face when they arrived. Michael, personally, felt terribly pleased at the results of his numerous late-night phone calls, and he wanted to see the reaction.  
   
James followed him into the make-up trailer, a couple of steps behind, staring into his almost-empty coffee cup in a pathetic manner that suggested he was hoping it might refill itself. Michael felt a little bad about doing this to him at such an early hour—James was, more or less, the opposite of a morning person—but at least he’d also brought James coffee, complete with disgustingly sweet raspberry syrup, though admittedly that was mostly because he wanted James to be awake for this.  
   
He tried not to grin, as he moved out of the way to ensure that James got a perfect view.  
   
James stopped walking. Stared at the redecorated wall. Cracked up. “Oh, that’s brilliant! Where’d you find it?”  
   
The giant promotional cardboard cutout of Mr Tumnus leered creepily down at them. Red scarf, pointed ears, goat legs, and all. Michael regarded this with, he felt, entirely justified pride. Revenge was such fun, really.  
   
James was still laughing. “I didn’t think you’d even seen it, why do you _have_ this?”  
   
“I know very disturbing people. Look, you have a little tail…” He certainly wasn’t going to tell James about the copies of _Narnia_ and _Wanted_ and _Becoming Jane_ that were currently hiding in the depths of his laptop, back at the hotel.  
   
Besides, he only watched them for research purposes, to learn how his co-star might handle different situations. If that meant that he ended up staring at James in various guises for hours on end, well, that was a result he’d discovered he could be entirely comfortable with. But it didn’t _mean_ anything, surely.  
   
“I don’t mind the tail, actually.” James contemplated his faun-shaped alter ego with alarming seriousness. “But I’d prefer a better one. Like…a monkey’s tail. I could, y’know, use it for things.”  
   
Michael’s brain, of its own accord, replaced the word _things_ with images that would probably scar James for life if given voice. Hell, they were his thoughts, and they disturbed _him_.  
   
“Please don’t tell me you’ve fantasized about yourself having a prehensile tail.” Sadly, this probably wasn’t the strangest conversation they’d ever had. An occupational hazard of working on a superhero film, he suspected, or maybe just of being friends with James.  
   
“No, but I’d guess you are, now.” James poked at one of the pointy cardboard ears. “Look, they wiggle!”  
   
“Not at all,” Michael lied, promptly. “And the ears suit you, I think. Eloquent. Expressive.”  
   
“I _know_ when you’re lying to me, Fassbender. I can read your mind, remember?”  
   
“Fauns can’t read minds,” Michael said, and then ducked as James tossed the now-empty coffee cup in his direction.  
   
And that was day two.

  
   
Day three involved James finding pictures of Michael with the worst blond dye job he’d ever had in his life, and sending them to the costume department with instructions that resulted in a terrified intern turning up with a yellow wig and saying, “I think I’m supposed to tell you to wear this today...”  
   
Michael tried to pretend he hadn’t heard that, but Matthew looked at him when he arrived on set and said, “No, wait, we’re supposed to do that new scene today,” and when Michael stared back, confused, Matthew produced yet another wig and proclaimed, “You know, the one where James makes you believe you actually look good as a blond!” and James said, very seriously, “I’m thinking we should talk about your fashion sense, Fassbender,” and Michael threw the wig at him.  
   
Things were getting serious, he decided, and, that evening, while James was off re-recording some problematic bits of dialogue, he pulled out his laptop and started hunting around on the internet.  
   
Very quickly, he realized three things.  
   
First of all, it was very easy to find very odd pictures of James on the internet.  
   
Second, he should never read anything with the phrase “James/Michael” in the title, ever, except maybe a couple that he bookmarked for later, because if people were going to write fictional stories about them then he should really know what all the fuss was about, and also why James so often appeared to be a stripper, which his brain found a far more interesting idea than it ought to be.  
   
And third, while, yes, it was very easy to find very odd pictures of James on the internet, it was also very hard to find _bad_ pictures of James on the internet.  
   
James inexplicably managed to look fantastic while hanging out of a tree, or falling down a flight of stairs, or standing nonchalantly on a table, or, in one case, seemingly attempting to eat his own necktie while making a face that should’ve been ridiculous but somehow instead just caused Michael to gaze at the screen in distracted silence for several minutes. There was something fundamentally, universally, unfair about this, he felt.  
   
He did end up with a few good ones, though he opted to forego printing out the one in which James appeared to be naked and covered in roses, because he had a feeling that James might not forgive him for that.  
   
And then, just because the universe wanted to torment him, one last picture of James popped up, right when he’d decided he was done.  
   
This one wasn’t one of the odd or bizarre or disturbingly random photoshoot ephemera. It looked like just a snapshot, taken casually, a moment out of time. And it was one he’d never seen before.  
   
James was wearing a sort of greenish-blue shirt, and jeans, and smiling just a little, and he had both sleeves pushed up, and some combination of the lighting and the camera angle made all the little golden freckles on his arms stand out, tiny constellations of starbursts pinwheeling across his skin. Michael stared.  
   
All right, he did know that James had freckles, yes, and so he must’ve seen them before. He couldn’t remember looking, specifically, but surely he’d known they were there. They really shouldn’t be so entrancing.  
   
But they were.  
   
Had James always had quite so _many_ freckles? Why hadn’t he noticed that? Were there freckles elsewhere that he had missed? He’d have to look, now, and make sure. And that wasn’t strange at all, because friends should certainly know the number and placement of each other’s freckles, right?  
   
All right, possibly not. Possibly it was weird, but then, James had started this whole thing, so, Michael reasoned, any ultimate consequences had to be James’s fault. That made perfect sense.  
   
He gave in and printed that picture out, too. If he put that one up somewhere, hidden among all the strange and inexplicable photos of James flashing a matador’s cape or getting ready to leap dramatically from a workbench, no one would notice, probably. And he could use it for comparison purposes, to check against the real thing.  
   
He shut off the laptop, went to bed, and ended up sharing his dreams with at least three versions of James, who for some reason had all turned up in his old London flat, accompanied by the soundtrack to _Atonement_. One of them looked like Mr Tumnus, and all of them inquired whether Michael would like to count their freckles. He tried not to be disappointed when his alarm went off before he could reply.  
   
Fortunately, James had to go off and test-drive wheelchairs before filming the next day, and so he had an hour or so to spend, in the morning, carefully redecorating the wall of the make-up trailer with all of his internet finds. Jennifer, when she arrived, started laughing; Rose asked for a copy of the one of James eating his tie. Kevin looked at Michael’s efforts for a few minutes, and then, very seriously, offered advice about the best placement for maximum impact, with respect to coloring and subject matter.  
   
James came in, windblown and cheerful and grinning. “Wheelchairs are fantastic. I tipped over the big motorized one three times, you should come practice with me.”  
   
“Is this going to be like the golf cart, again?” He already knew he’d say yes, regardless. He watched James take a sip of coffee; this morning’s grey sweater had a v-neck that drew attention to the graceful line of James’s throat, and slightly too-long sleeves that kept falling down. James kept pushing them up, one-handed, and utterly failing to make them stay in place.  
   
“Definitely!”  
   
“Then yes. You haven’t noticed yet, have you?”  
   
“Noticed what— _oh_. Oh, no…” James gazed at the wall of himself, wide-eyed. “How long did this _take_ you?”  
   
“Not that long.” A complete lie, that one. But the effort had been totally worth it.  
   
“Oh, my god. Did you spend all night stalking me on the internet? I don’t even remember half of these! What am I doing in _that_ one?”  
   
“Why would I know? You’re the one standing on a table!”  
   
“It must’ve seemed like a good idea at the time…” James sounded mystified, and pushed his sleeves up again, staring at the wall. This time they stayed up, and Michael took the opportunity to study his arms, and yes, there were the freckles, painting pale skin with flecks of gold, running up to vanish beneath fuzzy bunched-up sweater sleeves. How many were there?  
   
He’d tucked the one with the freckles into a cluster of others, mostly of James with increasingly large hair, where it was, in theory, camouflaged. He glanced from the picture to real-life bare arms, hopefully without James noticing. Tried to count freckles, and ended up losing track each time. Maybe the lighting wasn’t good enough. Or maybe he just needed to be a lot closer, to count more accurately.  
   
He looked at the picture again. Back at James. Really, no picture could quite do James justice. He’d thought he’d encountered some surprisingly good ones online, but no photograph could capture the right shade of blue for those eyes.  
   
“What _are_ you looking at? Is there something weird on my face?”  
   
 “Nothing! I’m not looking at anything. And of course there is. Your face.”  
   
“Oh, you’re hilarious. Seriously, you’re being very strange. Something you want to talk about?”  
   
Yes. He could ask James to come stand next to him and remove that damn sweater and let him count freckles, using fingers if necessary, in case they moved around. No.  
   
“No. And I’m not being strange. You’re being strange.” Not his best comeback ever, but he was distracted, and he still kept losing count.  
   
James eyed him suspiciously. “Did you do something to my coffee this morning? Are you just waiting for my tongue to turn blue or for me to break out in hives or something?”  
   
“Oh, I wouldn’t do that to you.” He wouldn’t, really. Too much possibility for hurting James, plus Matthew might murder them both if they actually slowed down the shooting schedule.  
   
“But you would do something else?” James looked from him to the wall of pictures. “If you’ve filled my trailer with roses, I’m going to kill you. Slowly. With my own hands. I even get to wear gloves today.”  
   
“Charles wears fingerless gloves. There’d be prints. And no, I didn’t put that one up. Why did you even…”  
   
“Don’t ask. And thank you for that tiny bit of compassion.” James took a sip out of this morning’s coffee cup, still thoughtfully gazing at the wall of embarrassment. Michael pondered the effectiveness of various ways to divert his attention, and found himself following the curl of steam from the coffee instead, where it tangled in James’s eyelashes.  
   
“Feel like sharing that?” He could probably use the caffeine. He had, after all, devoted much of the night to thoughts about James and the freckles, and he wouldn’t want to fall asleep in the middle of Erik’s rage-filled dramatic moments.  
   
“With you? You do remember that you make fun of my coffee every single day, right? But yes, by all means, if you want.” James handed it over.  
   
“You drink coffee that doesn’t taste like coffee. Which makes no sense. Is this hazelnut?” Half of his brain was horrified by that—really, what was the point of drinking coffee if it tasted like sugar or cinnamon or raspberries?—and the other half pointed out, with entirely inappropriate glee, that he was about to put his lips in the same spot that was still warm from James’s mouth.  
   
“It is. I did ask whether someone could find me a gingerbread latte this morning. They told me it was seasonal.” James reclaimed his caffeine. “I _like_ gingerbread.”  
   
“You realize it’s the middle of July.”  
   
“July is a season.”  
   
“July is a month. Summer is a season. Even in America.” Michael watched James lick hazelnut syrup off his lips. There was one solitary little freckle near his mouth, too. It probably tasted like hazelnut. And he probably shouldn’t be wondering about that.  
   
“You’re still staring at me.”  
   
“You think July is a season. And that gingerbread belongs in coffee.” But the distraction wasn’t working. James was looking from him to the pictures again, now eying a very specific point on the wall, and starting to grin.  
   
“Gingerbread belongs in everything. You’re just incapable of appreciating its wonders.” James used one hand to push his left sleeve, which had started sliding downward again, up a little higher. Michael tried not to watch the slide of soft fabric across skin, but he was fairly certain, from the way James tracked his expression, that he failed.  
   
“Hmm,” James murmured to his hazelnut monstrosity, contemplatively, and Michael had a terrible premonition that he might be in a lot of trouble, very, very soon.  
   
Despite the forebodings, though, he decided that day four was a success after Rose and January snuck up on James during lunch and presented him with a plateful of neckties, in case he wanted to chew on them instead.

  
   
The morning of day five, Michael woke up with an emotion that, if he were honest, he’d have to describe as giddy anticipation. He knew James had something in mind. He really, really wanted to know what, even if it meant, as it was likely to, some sort of ritual public humiliation that would follow him around the set all day. He could put up with pretty much anything, at this point, if it would make James laugh, at him, with him, near him, in some sort of close proximity.  
   
He caught himself singing in the shower, and didn’t bother to be embarrassed about that.  
   
James was already on set—some sort of last-minute wardrobe consultation, he’d said—and so Michael hopped into the waiting car by himself, and made his own way over to hair and make-up, and probably startled everyone he met along the way by smiling at them too broadly.  
   
He said “Good morning,” happily, to the person approaching him with sharpened eyeliner pencil, and then, curiously, “Has James been in yet?” She shook her head, and seemed to be trying, unsuccessfully, to hide a smile.  
   
“Do you know when he might—”  
   
And then James walked in, and Michael lost the ability to talk, because James was wearing an almost non-existent sleeveless white top and jeans that looked like they’d been painted onto him, and there were acres of bare skin and surprisingly muscled shoulders and, oh god, freckles. They ran all the way up those arms like artwork, little golden fireworks displays, and he wanted to go touch every single one, to follow the trail of them where they disappeared at the edge of white cotton.  
   
“Good morning!” James grinned at him.  
   
“Guh…” Michael managed, intelligently. There were three freckles in a happy little cluster right at James’s collarbone. They made an inviting triangle that beckoned him to stare, and he was absolutely powerless against them.  
   
“Sorry, didn’t quite catch that.” James looked entirely too smug. Bastard.  
   
“Ah…” Apparently he had no brain cells left. Not even one. Remembering lines might be a problem.  
   
Maybe James would have clothes on, by the time he’d need to remember the lines. Although that might not help, considering that the pattern of those freckles was going to be taking up permanent residence in Michael’s brain.  
   
James blinked at him, far too innocently. “What? Something wrong?”  
   
No. Oh, god, no. Not in any way. If this was the next stage in the prank war, he might as well give up, because James was clearly winning this round. But James, watching as Michael forgot all the words in the world, had started smiling, just a bit. It didn’t seem like the sort of cheekily triumphant _look-I’ve-won!_ grin that might’ve fit a victorious moment. It was a different, and just maybe more promising, kind of smile.  
   
If this _wasn’t_ the next stage in the prank war, he was going to need a new mental map for this. Possibly one of that sort with tactile features, raised hills and curved valleys. The kind that invited fingers to touch and explore new terrain.  
   
Or maybe James was just happy this morning, and maybe Charles had gotten some sort of bizarre wardrobe change, and maybe Michael was reading far too much into a smile that might not even be directed his way. James was cheerful by nature. He smiled _all_ the time. Maybe everything else was only in Michael’s head, and if the only thoughts he could currently form revolved around whether the freckles extended into other places, like under those far-too-tight jeans, did that say terrible things about him as a person?  
   
At this point Kevin wandered in, impeccably dressed despite the fact that it was five in the morning, and eating what looked like a jelly donut. He looked from James to Michael, and back to James, blinked a couple of times, and inquired, “Aren’t you cold?”  
   
“No…” James sounded somewhat defensive.  
   
Kevin blinked at him again, shrugged, and licked jelly off of his fingers. “Okay. I mostly just wanted to let you know that I bought donuts for everyone this morning. They’re in the craft tent. But don’t eat the jelly-filled ones.”  
   
“Why not?”  
   
“Because those are all mine. If you touch them there will be consequences.” Kevin waved in Michael’s direction, nodded at James, and wandered out again. “See you on set.”  
   
After a second, James said, “I really feel the need to go steal all his jelly donuts.”  
   
Ordinarily Michael would have offered an enthusiastic yes to that, but Kevin’s comment was still running around in his head. James did look a bit cold. There were little suggestions of goose bumps appearing on his arms under the freckles. And James shouldn’t be cold.  “You. Um. Clothes. You should put clothes on.” There, he’d managed a complete sentence. Not so hard after all.  
   
A flicker of—of _something_ crossed James’s face. Surprise? Disappointment? Hurt? No. Surely not. But it was gone too fast for Michael to accurately identify the emotion.  
   
And then it was replaced by a smile. “You’re probably right.” He turned the smile on the nearest hovering personal assistant, who gazed at him as if entranced. Michael could sympathize. “Steve, isn’t it? Could you—”  
   
“Of course! Yes! Anything you want!” The boy actually ran in the direction of the wardrobe department. Both of them watched him go.  
   
“I think he likes you,” Michael observed, after a minute.  
   
“Most people do, you know. I’m very likeable.” James flopped into his chair. The lights above the make-up mirrors danced across the freckles; was that a shiver?  
   
“You look cold. Do you want my shirt? You can have my shirt. Or I can go find you a blanket.”  
   
James looked up, not quite smiling anymore. “Michael, you really—”  
   
“I wasn’t sure which sweater you wanted so I brought you five! And also gloves!” Ah. Steve had returned. The poor boy was practically buried beneath several of Charles’s woolly jumpers, in various colors.  
   
“Thank you, Steve.” James picked the brown one off the top, without really looking at the rest. Michael found himself obscurely disappointed that he hadn’t chosen the blue one underneath it, the one that was the closest match to his eyes. Steve beamed. “Is there anything else I can get for you? Sir?”  
   
“Oh…not at the moment. And you don’t have to call me sir. You can call me James.” Michael stared at their reflections in the mirror and tried hard not to replay those sentences in his head. Was James flirting with the boy, or just being nice? James was nice to everyone, granted, but was that a look of gratitude for the fuzzy jumper, or something more? And could James say the word _sir_ one more time, in that accent, just because?  
   
“I can stay right here in case you need anything!”  
   
James looked intrigued. “Really? Is there something else you think I might be needing?”  
   
Oh, that was absolutely it. Michael turned around and made use of his best supervillain glare. He had been practicing, after all. “Steve, I need to talk to James. Go wait outside.”  
   
“But—”  
   
“Go. Outside.”  
   
Steve went. James raised both eyebrows in Michael’s direction. “Feeling unfriendly, this morning?”  
   
“No. You’re being friendly enough for both of us.”  
   
“What?”  
   
“You were flirting with him!” _And not me!_ he wanted to add, and just barely shut his mouth before the words got out. Most of the freckles were covered up now, hidden under bulky layers of wool. And that was just… not right. First they’d been splendidly present, and now they were gone, and Michael felt somehow off-balance as a result of all these drastic changes.  
   
But there were a few left. The ones that danced around James’s face, where they drew attention to his eyes.  
   
The eyes stared back at Michael in blue-shaded bafflement. “ _What?_ He’s all of twelve years old!”  
   
“He has to be at least eighteen to work here!” The words definitely had come out of his mouth, but, clearly, Michael’s brain had decided not to be involved with them in any way. What was _wrong_ with him, all of a sudden?  
   
James now looked completely confused, and also annoyed. At least he no longer looked cold, though. “I really wasn’t. I swear. And, anyway, would it matter to you if I did?”  
   
“Yes! You shouldn’t flirt with the personal assistants!” Why why _why_ was he being such an ass?  
   
“I’m entirely done talking to you about this.” James pulled out his script and started flipping pages, not actually reading any of them. “Tell me when you decide to be a sane person, and we can be friends again.”  
   
Michael couldn’t even argue with that. He had a terrible feeling that he might’ve just done something very stupid, something that might’ve threatened whatever actual liking that James might have for him. He didn’t even know why. If he was going to be jealous about every person James smiled at, he’d end up wanting to kill the entire world.  
   
And it wasn’t as if he had any right to be jealous. James was his friend. A good friend, certainly, someone who laughed at his jokes and talked him into stealing golf carts and put a hand on his shoulder during interviews, sometimes, just for support, and Michael woke up every morning excited to see him that day, and that was because they were friends. Right. Friends.  
   
Except maybe they weren’t anymore, because apparently Michael was capable of losing every bit of rational thought when James expressed equally friendly interest in someone else.  
   
James was pointedly not-looking at him, which was somehow not the same as simply not looking. Much chillier.  
   
Michael cleared his throat. “James?”  
   
“Maybe. Can you act like a human being now?”  
   
“Yes. I’m sorry. I can be a sane person.” He hoped.  
   
“All right, then, you’re forgiven.” James looked up. “Oh, you know what we should do? Hide Kevin’s donuts in Matthew’s office. He’ll never be able to prove it was us.”  
   
Was it really that easy? James sounded sincere, because he almost certainly was; James had probably forgiven him as soon as he’d apologized, because James was far too nice. Everyone’s friend. “You… you’re a terrible influence, you know. All right.”  
   
James said cheerfully, “It’s a plan, then,” and then “oh, good morning!” as the makeup artists pounced on him with airbrushes, and Michael stopped talking because it was difficult to speak with someone else’s hands on his face, but he kept watching James. Because James _had_ sounded sincere, and yes, tormenting Kevin would be, as always, fantastic fun, but there was still something absolutely, deeply, wrong.  
   
Because James had looked right at him, accepted the apology, and still hadn’t, quite, smiled.

  
   
Day six. They had to be on set at the same time, which meant that the car arrived to collect them both at seven in the morning. Michael found himself in the hotel lobby half an hour early, because he was already awake, because he had spent most of the night lying in bed, staring at the ceiling and trying to figure out just what that look on James’s face had been, and what he could do to fix it. He hadn’t seen James smile at him all day, yesterday, outside of the times they’d both been in character. He hated that thought. The world felt wrong. Off-kilter.  
   
Around four-thirty he’d given up on sleeping and had tried to read, and had, after a while, given up on that too. How could he make James smile again?  
   
He hadn’t found any good answers in the emptiness of his hotel room. So now he was reduced to staring out the window of the hotel lobby and wondering vaguely who owned the blue Porsche in the parking lot. Maybe he could buy James a car. But the Porsche wasn’t as blue as James’s eyes.  
   
Their own car turned up, and the driver waved at him. Michael, puzzled, checked his watch. Six-fifty-eight. Where was James?  
   
“Just a minute,” he said to the driver, and prowled around the lobby, looking for blue eyes and unruly hair. No James. Just hotel employees who gave him slightly strange glances, which he ignored.  
   
Maybe he should go try to find James in his room, except what if James was on his way down already? They might miss each other. He hovered next to a potted plant, irresolute. What if James was avoiding him?  
   
Five minutes past seven. What if something had happened to James? It was possible. Terrible things happened to people all the time. He might be sick. Or hurt. Or, just maybe, some delusional superhero fan had snuck into James’s hotel room, kidnapped him, and carried him off somewhere, and what if Michael never got to see him again, and the last time they’d ever spent together had been a day without James smiling?  
   
Almost ten minutes past seven, now. The potted plant gazed back at him unhelpfully. Michael resisted the urge to throw it at the wall.  
   
The elevator went _ding!_ , and he jumped, and glared accusingly at the opening doors.  
   
James practically ran out of the elevator, already in mid-sentence and hanging onto script pages with one hand. “—so sorry, I overslept, you should’ve just gone without me, I’ll apologize to Matthew when we get there…”  
   
Michael stared.  
   
Jeans, today, again. But old and worn and comfortable-looking, this time. And a blue fuzzy hooded sweater, front zipper pulled all the way to the top. Sleeves, slightly too long, left only fingertips peeking out. Actually, the entire sweater was just a bit big, and it cuddled James like a security blanket, making him look smaller and younger than usual. The dark smudges under his eyes argued against that last adjective, though. The part about oversleeping had to be a lie; James looked like he hadn’t slept all night.  
   
“Are you—”  
   
“I’m _fine_.” James flashed a smile at him. It was a familiar, sparkling smile, the one that James used on interviewers and people who asked for his autograph in restaurants, so brilliant that the recipients wouldn’t realize until much later that James hadn’t let them into his private life at all. Somehow Michael had never imagined seeing that particular smile directed his way.  
   
The hotel lobby suddenly felt a lot colder. He just didn’t know how to talk to that smile. “The, um. Car. The car is outside.”  
   
James winced. “Have you been waiting long? I’m really sorry.”  
   
“Um…”  
   
“Maybe there won’t be traffic,” James said, and ran out of the lobby, managing to apologize to the driver and dive into the car and hold onto his script, all simultaneously. Michael followed, more slowly. The chill of the morning air bit into his bones. He felt, abruptly, all the tiredness of the sleepless night catching up to him.  
   
James stuck his head out the window. “Coming?”  
   
“Yes…James?”  
   
“Hmm?” James went back to examining the day’s scenes as the car pulled away. He didn’t look up, and Michael stared at his bent head and the long sleeves, just the edges of his fingers visible when he turned a page, and gave up. “Never mind.”  
   
The rest of the trip was spent in silence, even though they managed to make up most of the ten minutes along the way.

The entire morning stayed awkward, too. Something had gone missing, between them. Not easily definable, but noticeably no longer present, in looks, in pauses, in abrupt movements, in the delivery of lines. They were both completely professional and utterly word-perfect and not at all in sync, both working but not working _together_ , and after the first hour Michael wanted to grab the prop gun that James was holding near his face and throw it at the wall, out of sheer frustration.  
   
Other people could tell, too. He could hear Matthew muttering to the assistant directors during breaks, especially after the take in which he accidentally took an extra step forward and James backed up and knocked over a fake rosebush, and then tripped over it.  
   
On any other day, he might’ve laughed at James’s expression, and then given him a hand. He’d wanted to. But James had already hopped back to his feet, determinedly not looking at anyone and muttering surprisingly profane syllables under his breath. He hadn’t known James knew some of those words.  
   
James sighed, and looked up at him. “We’re terrible today, aren’t we?”  
   
No point in denying that. “Yes, we are.”  
   
“I’m sorry.” James looked back down at the black plastic prop gun in his hands, as if it might hold some illuminating answers. It didn’t offer any.  
   
“What? Why?” There was no way in which this could possibly be James’s fault. There were, however, many ways in which it could be Michael’s own fault, starting with the fact that, whatever he’d done to hurt James the day before, he clearly hadn’t fixed it.  
   
James still looked tired, the dark bruises under blue eyes visible despite the best efforts of layers of not-quite-skin-colored concealer. That was his fault, too.  
   
“Oh…just because. For making things difficult. I’ll just try harder, all right?”  
   
“Listen, no, it’s really not your—”  
   
The first assistant director, clearly having been chosen to face the dragons, appeared next to his elbow and interrupted his attempt at an apology. “Matthew says you two need to sort out whatever this is before this afternoon, but to keep the day going, we’ll move on to something else, all right?”  
   
No. Not all right. He couldn’t not see James, not now. He had to fix things. He had to make James happy again. But James nodded, and let himself be pulled off to work with Rose for a while, and if he needed space, Michael couldn’t make him stay.  
   
He echoed some of James’s earlier obscenities, in his head, as someone went off to find Kevin for what was, apparently, now his next scene. He had until the afternoon to come up with something that might make James smile. Something that would let the world start spinning properly again.  
   
He watched James’s wearily retreating back, and thought about what he could do.  
   
Working with Kevin helped, actually. Kevin remained unbothered by Michael’s distracted mental state, and compensated for any awkwardness like the veteran actor he was, making things easy, which was a strange adjective for their anger-filled scenes, but accurate nevertheless. Kevin didn’t mind if he wanted to shout, or work out frustrations by throwing around props that were going to be replaced by CG in any case, and with some of the emotions given an outlet, he had some mental space again.  
   
He didn’t run into James for the rest of the morning, or during the short lunch break, afterwards. But he’d had an idea, and this one, unlike some of the others he’d gone through and discarded, might actually be practical.  
   
He’d probably need help for this one, though. At least Magneto had minions, he thought, and looked around for one of the ever-present personal assistants. The closest one had a familiar face. Perfect.  
   
“Steve, right?”  
   
Steve looked terrified. “I’m sorry!”  
   
“For what?”  
   
“What?”  
   
They stared at each other for a minute; Michael gave up first. “I’m sorry about yesterday. I shouldn’t have yelled at you.”  
   
“Oh…that’s okay. Sir.”  
   
“Steve?”  
   
“Yes, sir?”  
   
“You really don’t have to call me sir.”  
   
“Yes, sir.”  
   
All right, that one was probably a lost cause. “Listen, I need your help with something. It’s important.”  
   
Steve suddenly looked even more panicked; Michael sighed, inwardly, and said the magic phrase. “It’s for James, all right?”  
   
“Oh…all right…how can I help, Mr Fassbender?”  
   
Amazing. He’d known it would work, and it was still amazing. Then again, it would’ve worked on him, too, so he really couldn’t say anything. “First, you can _really_ never call me that again. Second, I need you to go run some errands, if you don’t mind.”  
   
“Um…”  
   
“Don’t worry,” Michael told him, which didn’t help, but the short and very specific list that followed did leave the boy looking relieved. And far too conspiratorially excited.  
   
“I can totally do that!”  
   
“Thank you.”  
   
“Not a problem!” Steve waved at him, and vanished. Michael crossed his fingers, mentally, and headed off to the wardrobe department.  
   
He tried to get dressed as fast as possible, hoping to head back outside and intercept Steve before the boy ran into James somewhere and told him everything, but paused, still shirtless, when James himself appeared, yawning, in Charles’s rumpled brown suit, and looking, if possible, worse than he had that morning. Even the creases in his tie shouted exhaustion to the world.  
   
Michael tossed his shirt at the nearest chair, from which it bounced off and landed on the floor, and took two steps over to James’s side. “Are you all right? Sit down.”  
   
“Oh…I’m fine.” James sighed. “Just tired. Long morning. Charles had to be charming today. I don’t feel charming, I feel like I want caffeine. Do you think coffee exists anywhere? Because otherwise Charles might fall asleep in the middle of a tear-filled moment of emotional bonding.” But he did let Michael push him into a chair without resisting, and then stopped talking, and shut his eyes.  
   
Michael put both hands on his shoulders and started kneading tired muscles, gently, and somehow the awkwardness between them tiptoed away without either of them noticing, in those few seconds. They were alone with all the silent costumes, for the moment, just the two of them together, and the tiny room welcomed them suddenly, comfortable as a familiar friend. He could take care of James. And James would let him. Just like that, the world felt warmer.  
   
James, he realized, had opened worn-out blue eyes again and was looking at the mirror. More specifically, at Michael’s still-shirtless chest in the mirror. Well. That was interesting.  
   
“Stopping already?”  
   
“What? No. Sorry. Is this helping?”  
   
“Yes. Thank you.” James tipped his head backwards to peer at Michael, behind him. “You don’t have to, though.”  
   
“I know. I don’t mind.” He didn’t. Actually, he found himself wanting to smile, for no real reason, just because James was here, letting Michael touch him, letting Michael try to make him feel better.  
   
He wondered how soon Steve would come back. The anticipation lurked under his skin like electricity, and he hadn’t slept any more than James had, but he felt oddly energized with it anyway. Breathless, almost. And James had been watching his shirtless reflection in the mirror.  
   
James opened his mouth to say something, probably wondering why Michael was grinning at him like a lunatic, and then the door opened.  
   
They both turned to look, in unison. James blinked. “Steve, right? Did you need something?”  
   
“Um…”  
   
“Oh, good,” Michael said happily, since Steve was holding what looked like exactly what he’d requested. And then he realized, from the look on the boy’s face, that he was still very much half-dressed, and giving a clearly exhausted James a massage. “Ah…can I talk to you outside for a minute?”  
   
“Wait, I don’t get to know?” Evidently James wasn’t too tired to be curious. Then again, James would probably have to be far, far more tired, or possibly even deceased, in order to stop being curious.  
   
“No. You get to stay here. Get changed. I’ll be back in a minute.”  
   
“But—”  
   
“It’s about you. And you like surprises.”  
   
“I do _not_ ,” James said, indignantly and untruthfully, but he was trying not to smile, Michael could tell.  
   
He grabbed his shirt and ran out the door and shut it firmly behind him, just before something collided with the doorframe with a loud _thunk_. Probably a shoe, he decided, and grinned, inwardly. Good. James was definitely feeling better, then.  
   
“So, did you find it?”  
   
“I did.” Steve handed over the cup. Michael noted the absence of any _sir_ or _Mr Fassbender_ this time, but then again the boy had just seen him half-naked, so they were probably on more or less equal footing at this point.  “Two coffee shops told me it was seasonal. But I bribed the second one with promises of your autograph. And I also went shopping. There’s a bag in your trailer. I thought that might be easier if you want to do this again.”  
   
“Thank you. I can reimburse you later…”  
   
“Oh, you don’t have to.” Steve grinned at him. “Just tell me how things work out for you two, later, all right? With details.”  
   
Which prompted a number of questions—there were things? Did James know that there were things? Had there been things all along?—but Michael just grinned back, because he couldn’t help it. Because, yes, there were things. “Thank you.”  
   
“Details, remember,” Steve said, and tactfully disappeared. Michael turned around, and discovered James sitting behind him on the trailer steps, fully dressed in appropriate training-montage attire and trying hard to look innocent of any possible eavesdropping.  
   
“You were supposed to wait for me.”  
   
James raised an eyebrow at him, unrepentant. “You did say it was about me.”  
   
“Yes, I did.” He offered a hand up—James couldn’t be comfortable sitting on the cold metal steps—and James took it. Of course.  
   
“So are you going to tell me? And since when are you friends with that boy? I thought you’d terrified him permanently.”  
   
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I like Steve. He’s very helpful.”  
   
“Helpful with what, exactly?” James, standing right beside him, had to tilt his head up to meet Michael’s gaze. Mischievous hair fell into his eyes, and Michael practically felt his fingers quiver with the need to brush it back into place. Priorities, though. He did have a plan.  
   
“Helpful with this. I got you something.” He handed over the coffee cup.  
   
James took it, intrigued fascination chasing away the weariness. Michael could tell the exact second that he caught the scent of gingerbread, because his entire face lit up. “Oh, my god, you’re amazing. How did you…”  
   
“I’m very persuasive.” He put both hands behind his back, to keep them from reaching out in an attempt to touch, and just enjoyed the look of sheer ecstasy on James’s face.  
   
James took a sip, and made a sound that, Michael decided, made every bit of effort, and whatever autographs Steve had promised on his behalf, absolutely worth it, just for that.  
   
And then James looked up, across the coffee cup. “Why did you decide to be persuasive on my behalf, again?”  
   
Trapped unexpectedly in oceanic eyes, Michael tried to remember how to breathe. “Because I’m sorry?”  
   
“For what? I don’t remember you doing anything you’d need to apologize for.” James spun the coffee cup around in his hands, carefully. They both watched it make one complete rotation. Then two.  
   
“I think maybe I did.”  
   
“You really didn’t.” James took another sip, and licked his lips afterwards, and Michael stared at the place where his tongue had been, and wondered what that little curve of skin would taste like, and whether James would object to him finding out.  
   
James added, apparently talking to the gingerbread latte, “It’s _really_ not you, it’s all me, I just thought maybe you wanted—but you don’t, and I’ve been an idiot, I’m sorry.” When he looked back up, the beginnings of a real smile peeked out, this time. A little rueful, but genuinely affectionate. Better, Michael thought, but still not quite enough. Not quite what he wanted to see.  
   
When James blinked, one long eyelash detached itself from the rest and settled on his cheekbone, just below one eye. Michael reached out automatically to flick it away, because somehow that wasn’t a strange thing to do at all, and heard the sudden little intake of breath when his thumb brushed against soft skin.   
   
The world, quietly, rearranged itself into perfect simplicity.  
   
Neither of them moved. He was still running a thumb across James’s cheekbone, and it felt a lot like a caress, all of a sudden. “James,” he said, very carefully, “what was it you were thinking, about us?”  
   
“I…well, I thought you might…” James turned his head, just a bit, just enough to lean into the touch. His words floated past Michael’s skin in feathery puffs of air. “You kept looking at me, is all. So I thought you might want more. Might want me. Maybe.”  
   
“I think I might want to kiss you now,” Michael told him, and James whispered back, “You found me a gingerbread latte in July,” and Michael would never be sure which one of them moved first, because the world had dissolved into the taste of gingerbread and sugar and the feeling of James’s lips, warm against his own.  
   
James held onto him one-handed, because there was still a coffee cup in the other hand, and Michael laughed and tugged at his shirt until it came loose, and then slid his own hand up beneath it, across smooth skin, trying to count freckles with his fingertips, and James kissed him again and said “Stop that, I’ll spill coffee on you,” and Michael murmured back “Then I’ll buy you another one” and wondered whether he could invest in gingerbread syrup.  
   
Someone, behind them, cleared his throat. Michael, without looking up, waved a hand vaguely at the offending person. “Go away.” They were busy. If he had anything to say about it, they were going to be busy for a long time.  
   
But James peeked over his shoulder, which required tiptoes, which Michael privately thought was fantastic, and then sighed. “How long’ve you been there?”  
   
Michael turned around, reluctantly, without letting go of James, who seemed happy with that arrangement. Kevin was leaning against the trailer next to them, eating another donut, and looking vastly entertained.  
   
“Almost the whole time. You two are as good as a romantic comedy. Reminds me of something I was in, once.”  
   
“What do you want?” Michael was a little proud of himself for not reaching out and swatting away the donut. It was a hard-won internal debate.  
   
“Oh, I think I was supposed to tell you that Matthew wants you both on the set. But that was fifteen minutes ago, and this is much more fun. Go on.”  
   
“Go _away_ ,” Michael grumbled, and James said, “Oh, don’t be mean to him; Kevin, go away, _please_?” and Kevin laughed. “If you admit to stealing my donuts, I’ll tell Matthew I couldn’t find you, deal?”  
   
“Deal,” Michael said promptly, in the hope that Kevin would instantly vanish. It didn’t quite work.  
   
“I _knew_ that was you. Matthew’s been scared of me since the chicken incident.” Kevin saluted them with the end of his donut, and disappeared around the trailer. “You two have fun.”  
   
James watched him go, and inquired, wide-eyed, “Chicken incident?”  
   
 “I really don’t want to know.” Michael tightened his arms around James again, which got those blue eyes to turn back in his direction, where they should be. “Where were we, then?”  
   
“I think you were telling me you wanted to kiss me—”  
   
“I thought I _was_ kissing you. And it’s want. Not wanted. Present tense.” He demonstrated by leaning down to brush his lips across James’s, one more time, tasting sugary spiciness. He might be perfectly fine with gingerbread in coffee, after all.  
   
“Mmm. All right, present tense. Why, again? Not that I’m protesting.”  
   
“What do you mean, why? Because I love you.” At which point his brain caught up with his mouth, and then, belatedly discovering a sense of self-preservation, promptly forgot how to form any more words, in case something even more embarrassing jumped out.  
   
James said, “Wait, you _what_?” and Michael said, “Nothing, I didn’t say anything,” and James said “You love me, I heard you say it, you can’t take it back now,” and then kissed him again, sudden and bright and sweet and slightly sticky from all the flavored syrup.  
   
Michael held onto him, sneaking both hands up under layers of fabric again to run across soft skin, pulling James as close to him as possible, wanting to feel him everywhere, all that happy solid warmth. Even if James didn’t feel the same way, even if James didn’t say it back, even if he’d just frightened James off by moving from apologetic coffee to declarations of love in record time, at least he had gotten to have this.  
   
It wasn’t enough, might not ever be enough, but it was perfect, anyway.  
   
James stopped kissing him, and Michael tried not to be disappointed by that fact. He prepared himself for James stepping back, putting distance between them, anything except what actually happened, which was that James looked at him thoughtfully, and said, “I like the way you kiss, I think.”  
   
“I’m…happy about that?” Was that an appropriate response to that comment? His brain might’ve shut down in certain important places. Preoccupied with thoughts about James and freckles and the smile that lit up blue eyes like sunlight over the ocean.  
   
“Well, it’s not as if I’ve kissed a lot of men for comparison purposes. Only you, actually.”  
   
“Good.” That came out a little too immediate, too possessive. But the idea that he’d been the first one, the only one, sent sudden heat running through his veins, under his skin; James was _his_. At least James didn’t seem to mind; he was still smiling.  
   
“So…I should probably tell you something, too.”  
   
“What?” Those expressive eyes were laughing at him; it couldn’t be anything terrible, right? Michael tried not to hold his breath, waiting.  
   
“Oh, really? You haven’t guessed?” James poked him in the ribs, gently, with the hand not clinging to the coffee cup. “You do know I’ve been hopelessly in love with you for, oh, ages, right? Pretty much since we started filming. Honestly, I always thought you knew, and you weren’t interested. I mean, I decorated the set with pictures of you in a loincloth. And then walked around in practically nonexistent clothing—at five in the morning—to try to get you to look at me. Not terribly subtle.”  
   
“You were—you _what_? Why would you think—of course I was interested!” Someday he might be able to form actual complete sentences again, but probably not any time soon, after hearing that. Also, he might be a little distracted, thinking about James thinking about him in a loincloth.  
   
“Really? Because you did tell me to put clothes on. And then you shouted at me. You can see why I might’ve been confused.”  
   
“I’m sorry again. You can shout at me, too, if you want. That _was_ why the outfit, then.”  
   
“Of course it was.” James grinned. “I do still have that shirt. And the jeans.”  
   
“James?”  
   
“Yes?”  
   
“I love you.”  
   
“I love you, too. I did think you enjoyed the wardrobe experiment, at least at the beginning. What was it specifically? I wasn’t quite sure, but you did seem to like my arms.”  
   
“The freckles, actually.” And then everything else. Or maybe everything else had been first, and he’d just never realized it. He’d have to make up for that. Starting now.  
   
“Oh…really?” James seemed amused by that, and happy, or maybe that was just because Michael had managed to slide fingers under the waistband of his pants, in search of soft skin and any sneakily hidden flecks of gold. He hadn’t managed to count those, yet. “Well…in that case, can I make a suggestion?”  
   
“Please.” A stray sunbeam bounced down through the overcast sky, and turned the air bright, around them. The light of it caught in James’s hair, in the metal glints of the trailer steps, in the distant illusions of the film set, waiting for them, full of possibilities.  
   
“We do this scene as fast as possible—”  
   
“No argument here.”  
   
“—and then go back to the hotel—”  
   
“I like your plan.”  
   
“I’m not done. And your tongue in my ear is not helping me talk.”  
   
“Sorry. Go on. All ears.”  
   
James made a face at him. “Really? Bad ear-related puns? Now?”  
   
“Sorry. But you still love me.” He wanted to hear it, to say it, as many more times as they could both stand. Probably more.  
   
“I do, yes. And you love me. We could go back to the hotel, and you could, er, look at the freckles in more detail. If you’d like that.” James was actually blushing, a little bit, even while talking. Michael found this far too adorable, and wondered whether he could come up with other things that might make James blush, again, later.  
   
“So…would this plan involve you being naked, then?”  
   
“I’d sort of hoped it would involve us both being naked, actually.” James looked at him hopefully, still slightly pink-cheeked and happy, sparkling eyes centimeters away, and Michael kissed him again, just because he could.  
   
“I love your plan. And I love you. How fast do you think we can finish this scene, again?”  
   
“Hmm…half an hour? If everything goes well.”  
   
“Twenty minutes. And I’ll make you coffee tomorrow morning. With as much gingerbread as you want in it.”  
   
“Do you think gingerbread syrup can stain hotel sheets?” James inquired, innocently, and Michael stared at him and said, “Fifteen minutes. At most. Or I’m not responsible for the scandalous outcome,” and James laughed, and as it turned out, with Matthew watching in bemused astonishment, they finished with thirty seconds to spare.  
   
And, the next day, when James woke up, sleepy and tangled up in every single one of Michael’s sheets, Michael was waiting with holiday-scented coffee, and James said, “Good morning, I love you,” and Michael told him, “Yes, it is, I love you too,” and then threw a handful of rose petals at him, and James said, “Oh, you bastard, I _knew_ you kept a copy of that picture, you’re never seeing me naked again,” and tried to hide under the sheets.  
   
James, in the morning, tasted like early sunlight and warm skin and coffee and gingerbread, and the sheets ended up on the floor, and James might’ve still had a thoroughly crumpled rose petal in his hair when they turned up on set. And it was, Michael decided, a very, very good morning, indeed.


End file.
